When the World Begins to Fade
by ProjectXii1
Summary: In an alternate reality, Baal has been defeated, but the world of Sanctuary has not turned out the way man had hoped. A Diablo based noir that resembles Sin City in terms of violence and content.
1. Scene 1 – Self Loathing Be My Friend

**When the World Begins to Fade – Diablo Noir**

**Scene 1 -**** Self Loathing Be My Friend**

I lean back in my chair, feet resting on the desk in front of me, and stare intensely at the spit balls on the roof above my head. It's not the first time today that I've done this. Lately, most my life has been spent this way; rocking in my chair, staring at the ceiling, and trying to recall which drunken stupor it was when I spat those saliva drenched wads of paper, trying to get them to stick. I bet I laughed like a loon when they did.

Dirty lamp light filters in through my boarded up windows. I have no idea what time it is; probably the middle of the night for all I know. It always seems dark in this place. Just for a change of pace, I let the chair fall with a thump onto the hard wooden floor, then push myself slowly out of it. It gets harder every time I do this. I have to remind myself that I'm not as young as I used to be; as I head for the window my muscles and bones creak in protest, and the tell-tale pain of dry twist burns in my left hand.

Wincing, I peer through the boards, out of my run-down, termite infested shack. My nose is so close to the dusty wood I can smell the acidic goop those little bastards spit on it before eating the walls away piece by piece. Pest control in this day and age certainly leaves a lot to be desired: some guy waving a wand and chanting some drivel. How's that supposed to keep the bugs away? What a phony.

The street outside is cold and barren, the light of the oil lamps doing nothing to warm the scene. A single figure leans against one of the posts, scrutinizing her nails with bored interest. For just a second a feel my pulse quicken as I catch a glimpse of that heavenly crease between her breasts, the way they rise and fall delicately with each breath she takes. The bright red corset squeezing her already shapely midsection down another two sizes only serves to accentuate the curves further, and her skirts dangles just low enough to cover what it must. Still, it leaves very little to the imagination. I find myself wondering if the couple of gold coins I have floating around in my desk will be enough to tempt a goddess like her into spending the night with a washed out loser like me.

Probably not.

I watch her for a little longer as she undoes her hair and pulls it back into a tight ponytail. Once her people had been known as the most powerful and strong willed women in the world. They could twist a man around their little finger and snap him like a twig, or beat the foulest of demons back into the cesspits they had crawled from. Now, these 'ladies' were known more for being fantastic night companions and ferocious lovers. If you could meet their fee. Hey, everyone has to survive in this world, and if doing that means putting your morals on the shelf - far at the back along with your self respect - sometimes that's what you have to do.

I sigh and turn away, leaving the window to the world beyond. My knees ache as I trudge back to my chair, and it's a relief to sit back in its waiting arms. I swear there must be a butt shaped groove in the cushion by now, with the amount of time I spend lounging here. I wonder if I should go out and chase up some work, rather than waiting for it come to me. But the idea of getting drunk and staring at spitballs seems far more appealing.

I grab the steel mug off the desk, and bend down to the large keg I keep underneath. As expensive as that sucker may have been, it's negated the need for me to go to the pub for almost a month now. Which, of course, is fine by me. Bars are only full of drunk, self loathing idiots anyway, and there's nothing worse then sitting and listening to someone narrating the very thoughts flowing through your own mind.

I fill my mug, take a sip, and grimace. "Warm cat piss" is about the only description that comes to mind. I know it'll get better after a few though; everything gets better after a few. Or at least more bearable. That old bat, Malah, never neglects to remind me that I'm just numbing my pain. I guess I could ask her for advice; she did lose her whole family in the war, and must be somewhere around the 'eighty years young' mark Ah, who's she kidding. I bet she's got a whole darn cabinet filled with the drink. And not this watered down crap either, but the proper stuff, the kind that'll put hairs on your chest as well as knock your ass on the floor.

Good stuff, that.

I sigh, and take another sip. I lean back in my chair, feet resting on the desk in front of me, and stare intensely at the spit balls on the roof above my head. It's not the first time today that I've done this.

*****

I awake, slouched in my chair, and gaze through bloodshot eyes at the steel mug lying on the floor. Guess I never even got to finish that last drink; the dark stain splashed over the wood is still visible even though the ale has long since soaked into the thirsty wood. Probably morning by now.

My head throbs. That awful bloody dream again. Always that dream. Every night, I'm back in the war, swinging my axe and hewing demons from existence. The screams of the dieing ring in my ears. Blood coats every inch of my body, dripping onto the cold, white snow. Normal people might have found these dreams horrific. Might even call them nightmares. But it's not the case. For me, the bad part is that they're good.

They take me back to the glory times, when the Children of Bul-Kathos fought side by side with men and women from all over Sanctuary. United by a common cause. Nothing better then the sound of a monster gurgling as you hacked through its breastbone, or the shriek of a Succubus when you cleaved her pretty limbs from her body. Even traumatic events - like watching my brother's head explode as a Siege Beast smashed it with a mace - become meaningful memories, He got to die an honourable death, go out with a bang. The same can't be said for those of us still left here. Rotting in our own apathy. The "good old days" haunt us, reminding everyone of exactly how far we have fallen. That's all each day is: a never ending battle to be the fly that holds on longest to this steaming pile of crap. What the nature lovers call "life".

With my thoughts still churning, I notice my right hand is slowly edging towards the drawer of my desk. That time already? Happening earlier and earlier, I swear. I watch it, watch as it creeps ever closer. Now it's past my knee. Now it's hovering in mid air. I have no control. It has a will of its own. And it knows the way well enough: it's been there countless times before.

My hand is on the drawer handle now, and ever so slowly pulling it open. I don't really have to peer into the darkness within; I know what's there. But I look anyway. Sure enough, my mini auto-load crossbow sits innocently inside, its cartridge loaded with six-inch, silver-tipped bolts. Standard issue weapon nowadays; no one leaves home without one. Strap it to your wrist, conceal it under a coat sleeve, and presto! Any thief who thinks you're an easy target on the streets is ripe for a shiny bolt right between the eyes. I only buy the good ammo too, not that cheap steel-tipped crap. Silver is the way to go.

A bolt sits on the wire now, begging me, calling me. Better not disappoint. My hand grasps the handle, and goes through the motions that have become a ritual more then a habit. I try to decide which would be a better way to go: staring at the closed door, a dark symbol for my pointless life? Or those spitballs on the roof, my always present but slightly sticky friends?

Probably doesn't matter all that much, because by this point my hand is parallel to my head and there's a silver tip pressed to my temple. My finger is on the trigger, quivering. Is today the day? Will that bugger of a rat creep out from his hole under my bed and startle me enough to hit the release? Will some vision of a friend's death prompt a slight, yet life ending, twitch of the finger?

I can't say, and I never can. I know only that I stay motionless like this for perhaps ten minutes every day, before my arm begins to tire and I contemplate putting the deadly weapon down. My ritual, the last thing I'll be doing one day when I finally decide enough is enough. My heart beat is racing, I can feel sweat on my forehead.

Why one day? Why not just now. Get it over with, and go meet those demons I hacked up. Meet them on their own turf. Hell's got to have more potential then this place; Harrogath has gone to the dogs and no manner of hero is going to save it from becoming the arsehole of Sanctuary anytime soon. Yet, what better place for a bum like me to live? Or die. My finger is still on the trigger. I can feel pressure building up behind it.

Whatever plans I had at that point, I can't really remember. Because it was then she knocked on the door. Did she save my life, or just delay the inevitable? Either way, I wasn't about to thank her.

I did, however, consider complimenting the dress she was wearing...


	2. Scene 2 – A–Knocking on the Door

**Scene 2 - A-Knocking on the Door**

I let her knock three, perhaps four times before finally answering. When you've been alone as long as I have, you don't rush into anything without first confirming if it's real or not. That knocking could all be in my head.

But by the fourth knock, I know it's not just my loneliness inventing invisible friends. Someone is at my door. For the first time in months, someone requires my services. Of course, it'd probably help if more people knew I was here. Or I had a sign. At least, one that didn't say "Trespassers Will Be Hewn". 

"Who... who is it?" I croak. How long since I actually spoke a word? My voice sounds rusty, old, ugly. It grates on my own ears.

"My name is Amelia. I need your help. May I come in?"

Her voice is anything but ugly. Smooth, clear and confident, it sends shivers down my spine. I'm already visualising the figure who spoke before I've seen her; something I do so well, in fact, that I forget to answer.

"Hello? Are you still there?"

I regain my senses and peer around the room. What a mess. My bed lies unmade and sagging in one corner. A small chest of drawers containing my limited worldly goods (clothes, battle trinkets, a Succubus's left hand) rests against the far wall, looking as termite-infested as the rest of the shack. To top things off, I still have my mini crossbow pointed at my head. At least she had the decency to knock; she would have turned and walked straight back out if she'd opened the door to a scene like this.

"Yes. Come in," I finally blurt out. I hurriedly put the weapon back in the desk drawer and close it. Sitting straight in my chair, I try to pick a pose that displays confidence, security, wisdom and perhaps a hint of my handsome side.

I fail dismally.

Amelia opens the door with some effort (note to self: grease the hinges with animal fat... one day), and pauses in its frame. It's dark in here, and I can tell she's letting her eyes adjust. But oh, those eyes. They blow me away.

Like emeralds in the sun, they glitter and shine. I'm entranced with them, and find my stare is so intense I'm leaning forward in my chair. She finally focuses on me, and smiles. I guess I'm looking pretty eager.

"Hello," she says. 

For a second something strange clicks in my head, and I feel like I should be grateful she acknowledged me. So it was that I said the first few letters of 'thank you' before catching myself in time. 

"Tha... I... H... Hello," I splutter. Smooth, man, real smooth.

She, however, is unfazed. She probably gets this all the time. Probably revels in it; what girl doesn't like to be worshipped and become the next possible fantasy for a lonely guy on a late night?

"I understand you're a man that can find things?" she asks, her smile giving away only the slightest hint of amusement.

I consider thinking about what to say next, but somehow impromptu just seems easier.

"Yeah, I find stuff. Well, people usually. Why, did you need me to find something for you?"

I mentally slap my own forehead. Of course she does, you bumbling git. Why else would she be here? Idle conversation? I sigh softly, and gesture to the chair in front of my desk.

"Maybe you should take a seat, and we'll start from the beginning."

Amelia's eyes twinkle (she's laughing inside, I know it) and she nods.

"Maybe I will."

Though I know it's rude, I can't help but gape at her fabulous body as she strides into my room. Thin, pale, and sleeker then oil in moonlight. She moves with a grace that gives her the illusion of gliding over my floorboards, feet too delicate and perfect to touch the wood. Her long black hair trails far down her back, wild yet pristine. Bet she can afford to actually wash hers with those nice smelling perfumes. I need to get me some of that... though perhaps I should get some hair first.

Once she reaches the chair, she sits down and promptly crosses her legs. The silky green cloth she's wearing ruffles with her movements, then smoothes out once she's settled. To make matters harder (so to speak), she doesn't even attempt to hide the fact that her skirt had slipped almost up to her waist, exposing a good portion of silky white leg. I'm quite thankful I'm partially hidden behind the desk.

"So what... who... do you want me to find?" I ask, sounding small and far off. If she leans forward, I know I'm going to lose the last ounce of composure I'm retaining.

She smiles and leans forward, allowing some of the light coming through the window boards to wash over her dress. Geeez... she may not be as well endowed as the Corner Working Corset Goddess, but she certainly makes up for it with the transparent quality of her clothing. Somehow I remain calm, and I try as casually as I can to cross my own legs and look concerned. But I can sense that she already knows the effect she's having and is enjoying it thoroughly.

"It's my sister," she begins, her flawless brow furrowing, "she's... disappeared. Ten days ago, she left to look for a friend of hers. I haven't heard from her since. I'm... afraid."

This girl is either very smart, or she doesn't know which side of the game she's playing. Suddenly _she's_ the weak one, defences stripped to her troubled heart? Does she expect me to come leaping to her -

"What does your sister look like, and where was she headed? I assure you, I'll find her. I'm the best there is! Eighty-nine percent success rate."

Mental slap again. Idiot. Never mention figures! It only prompts more questions.

"Only eighty nine? Why? What happened to the other eleven percent?"

Doesn't waste time, this girl.

"Errmm... accident. I returned a cheating wife to a client, and he refused to pay. So I threatened to break his wife's arms. Guy turned out to be a real poor aim with the mini-cross, and shot her instead of me. Lost my money and the eleven percent; bad deal by all standards."

Amelia nods understandingly. I always found it hard to tell if women were being genuinely sympathetic, or if they were just putting it on. This one seems genuine. It feels odd.

"Well, if that's the only mishap you've had, I feel I can trust you with this task." She leans back and stretches out slightly in her chair, her legs now disappearing under the desk. "I'm willing to pay whatever it takes... and perhaps a bit more?"

She's smirking, her green eyes twinkling with... something. Greed? Lust? Oh, god, please let it be lust. I only have a second or two to contemplate this before she confirms my suspicions. One tender, soft foot has appeared on my knee, and begins massaging gently with its toes. I look back at her face; that smiling, glowing face, and swallow hard.

"Wh...where was she... headed... to...?" my mind is a blur; how am I supposed to think while she's doing this? I'm a man! I can't concentrate on more then one thing at a time! Pleasure and work just can't mingle.

"We can discuss that later. Right now, let's go back to the price. I wouldn't want you to have to break my arms once this is over because I was unable to pay the fee." Her foot is working its way off my knee now, massaging up along my thigh. Damn, it's nice. But somehow it feels wrong, too.

She's still playing the game; probably done this countless times before. Confuse a man's mind, charm his wits away. He'd be putty in her hands, and all she have to do is ask if what she had was enough to get the job done. Clever girl, I'll give her that. But she's out of luck. Doesn't she know she's not the only woman in the world? She's just another predator, posing as a house pet.

With that thought, my mind feels clearer, and I manage a polite smile myself.

"Miss Amelia, if you don't kindly remove your foot, I'm afraid I won't be able to help you at all, let alone state my terms and fees." 

Her smirk flees, giving way to a surprised frown. Ball in my court now; how does that feel, missy? Obviously not too good, as her foot disappears as quickly as it arrived.

"Fine. What do you need to know? I can see we're going to be doing things your way." Her pretty face is now a childish pout. She's so cute when she's mad. 

To prevent her from trying another contact-trick, I get out of my chair and begin to pace. I can feel her eyes watching me, though the soft look that had greeted me in the doorway had hardened somewhat now. Still, it felt good to be in control again.

"I need to know everything. Her name, height, build, age," I'm ticking things off on my fingers as I go, "hair colour, eye colour, and preferred lingerie colour..."

I tilt my head slightly in her direction to see if the question has any effect. One eyebrow is raised, but that's about it.

"Would you like her brassiere size as well?"

Ah, so she does have a sense of humour. Always a good point.

"If you think it's necessary." My turn to smirk. "Otherwise we'll just stick to the vital stuff."

Amelia gives a final pout, then takes on a thinking pose.

"Well, she's about... yay-high." She holds her hand at almost its maximum reach off the floor while still sitting down. I do some quick figures in my head and guessed around five foot eight. Amelia is still concentrating, probably visualising her sister's characteristics in her mind.

"Dark brown hair, cut short. Brown eyes to match. She looks like she's still in her teens, but she's actually mid-twenties."

My smirk widens.

"How old are you?" I ask. It has a better reaction than I expect. 

"What? That's none of your business! We're here to talk about my sister, not me."

"So you're not twins then?"

"No, of course not, we're... sisters." She sounds flustered and awkward, as if she's repeating a response to a question asked all too often. Odd how she had to change the ending of that sentence then.

"My apologies. Please continue." 

"Gladly."

The flush of red in her face is beginning to fade now. I can see her wishing she still ran the game. Tough luck, girl.

"She has an impressive figure; very lithe and extremely agile. She likes to keep herself fit and ready for any situation."

"Is there a reason for this?" 

"It's a... hobby of hers."

You don't become a man who can find things by being fooled by liars. This girl was practically spewing excrement. But for now, I let it slide. Always more important to listen then to start prying to deep.

"Alright. So that should cover appearance. Where was the friend she was looking for?"

"He lives up on Arreat, in one of the new towns that was built to commemorate Baal's defeat."

She grimaces, and I, pacing on the other side of the desk, do likewise. One of the mountain towns, ay? Not a good sign. They'd been prosperous and pretty to start with. Now they were nothing but run-down crime pits, each one home to a different mob boss. You didn't going a-knocking in one of those places without a damn good reason, that's for sure.

"Which town exactly?" 

"Golland."

Every inch of my skin breaks into a cold sweat at that name. Golland. Not just a crime pit but _the_ crime pit. The most powerful mob boss of all lives there. Does Miss Amelia truly believe I'm going to just walk in and start asking around for her lost brown-eyed, well-built sister? She's dead already, and I'm willing to lay the job on it.

"She's either dead, or a pet slave to one of the mob boss's lieutenants," I say. "And for both your sakes, I hope it's the former. No woman would want to work for the Golland Club scene."

"Don't you think I know that!" Suddenly all the confidence the girl held vanishes, and she looks ready to burst into tears. "I told her not to go; she knew the risks as well! But she just wouldn't... _listen_!"

She stands up fast, knocking her chair back onto the floor with a loud bang. Damn, she's mad. I can already see the tell-tale shine of liquid forming on her lower eyelids. (She's so cute when she's mad.)

"I need to know! I have to know what's happened to her! If she's dead, so be it. But if she's a... a..." she's struggling to say it, "a _sex_ slave for one of those dirty minded mob freaks..." Her fists are clenching and unclenching. Am I about to be in the war path of a woman in anguish? Time to take control once more.

"Calm down. It'll be-"

"It _won't_ be fine. I want you to find her. Find her, and if that is the fate that's befallen her... I want you to drag her the hell out of there."

My eyes widen. She really is insane. Walk into a Golland Club and take one of their workers right off the stage? Pure insanity.

"You're not thinking clearly. A job like that... you couldn't even dream of how much it'd cost to you. It's higher risk than antagonizing a rabid Pit Lord!"

"I _am_ thinking clearly. If you can't rescue her... kill her. Just don't leave her there. I'll pay whatever it takes..." Her voice is softening. It must take an extraordinary amount of effort to bind up her feelings, but somehow she's managing it. She walks towards me, almost forcing me to take in the subtle swing of her hips, and the thin but curvaceous figure beneath that wafer thin material. I'm frozen to the floor.

"Look," she starts. She has stopped very close to me now, close enough that I can smell the perfumed wash in her hair. "Look, I'm sorry I lost control. But she's my sister. You have... had family once, right? You'd have done anything for them, to make sure they didn't suffer?" 

Wench. Cow. She's taken the game back as her own in a matter of seconds, and here I am once again, quivering with the effort of keeping my raging blood from boiling over.

"If you find her, if you do as I ask," she coos, stepping even closer so that she has to tilt her head up slightly to look at my face, "I promise I'll make it worth your while." She places one smooth hand on my chest and smiles.

I'm unable to say anything; I just stare back into those emerald eyes. Amelia with the Emerald Eyes. Who needs to point a mini-cross at their temple when women like this roam our world? She was going to be the death of me. She was the job I'd been waiting for.

"Ok," I breathe. "I'll go. I'll go to Golland. I'll either find or kill your sister." 

Her face lights up like the moon on a cloudless night. Even death felt worth this; her beauty turns me to mush. I just want to melt between the floorboards.

"Thank you! Thank you with all my heart." She reaches up, and before I can move, gives me a quick kiss on my cheek. Then she turns and strides to the door. I stand, dumbfounded, watching those hypnotic swaying hips and trying to force words from my mouth.

"Oh, one more thing," she says, stopping in the door frame and looking over her perfect shoulder. "Sis said she was going to stop by at the Beast Masters, see if she could hire a wolf for protection. Maybe you should pay him a visit? He might have some information."

I finally manage to splutter out the words that are needed.

"Wait! What's your sister's name?"

"Elsa," she calls. Then she shuts the door. My shack, my world, is cold and dark once again.


	3. Scene 3 – The Beast Master

**Scene 3 - The Beast Master**

It's a long time before I can move again... in truth I feel like my brain has frozen over. But when I do come to, I very quickly realise the opportunity this clever seductress has offered me.

_The Beast Master. He and I go back a long way. We'd even been uneasy ally's during a mountain raid on one of Baal's fortifications. His bond with animals proved incredibly useful, if not slightly disturbing, and the demons of Hell fell swiftly beneath the enraged predators of Sanctuary. _

They weren't enough to protect him from one creature though; an enormous Thresh Lord, covered in more armour then a city gate battalion, chased The Beast Master down. The brute had bitten the man's leg off up to his thigh before a lucky blow caught it on the side of the head and released its jaws. Beast Master's adventuring days ended there; lying in a pool of his own blood on the soft snow of Mt. Arreat.

With Baal's defeat, The Beast Master had no real purpose left in our land, but no way of returning home either. So he opened up shop at the other end of town, offering his nature friends as body guards. Innocent enough business, right?

Not likely.

Fact of the matter is; there isn't much money in hiring out 'mercenaries', even if they are more willing to defend you to the death then the average man. No, The Beast Master needed a more lucrative way to live life in our fast-turning-rank city.

Remember those mob bosses I mentioned earlier? Not all of them dislike each other. Most actually have a profitable trafficking system flowing between towns, trading everything from the newly discovered 'Flower-Powder', to good old fashioned lab-made narcotics. Gotta love those alchemists; when the need for demon destroying liquids dries up, why not experiment with new ways to get high? It'd made them the richest folk in Sanctuary, so they must be doing something right.

The main - and possibly only - problem with trafficking these 'sensitive' goods, is the rogue and unchecked gangs. Usually made up of starving peasants or stoned youth, these gangs set up elaborate traps for mob carriers, using dogs to determine the ones carrying the drugs. The mobs suffered vast losses to groups like this, and here's where The Beast Master came to the rescue.

There's an old saying I've heard drifting on the streets: "Never store something up your own arse that you can store up someone else's." Very few rogue bands (even the 'tough' ones with those new-age piercings... crazy kids) are willing to mess with a six hundred pound Grizzly who's got his lower regions stuffed to the hilt with "Snuff". The mobs were all too happy to pay The Beast Master's modest fee.

Most average citizens know nothing of these affairs, and they're all too happy to concentrate on their own problems. Only over the course of my working years have I managed to piece together all the clues and see the bigger picture. I could do something about it I guess... I guess it could be kinda fun to see how long I can outrun a mob assassin too. I may be a reclusive loner with suicidal tendencies, but I'm not stupid.

Basically, I've been waiting almost three years now for an excuse to drop by and visit my old war buddy, The Beast Master. And now I had it.

Amelia, that sultry minx who'd walked in off the street and asked, from the bottom of her worried heart, for my help. I'll die doing her bidding, but I'll be damned if I'm going to go alone. I'm going to take every low life scum I can with me, kicking and screaming, down to join my brother.

The perfume from her hair still lingers, and suddenly I have the uncontrollable urge to see if I can catch one last glimpse of her. I run to the window and peer through the boards, my heated breath fogging up the murky glass.

No sign of her. Did she walk the other way? My heart sinks, and I'm about to turn, dejected, back to my desk, when suddenly she strides into view. It's definitely her; that unmistakable black hair and those pendulum hips. She could halt battles at their most chaotic.

Yet, as I stare with heart pounding, I see something interesting about to happen; a scenario that all men find both fascinating and amusing. Red Corset Corner Goddess is still under her lamp, apparently now trying to get a stain off her skirt. What will happen when two perfect specimens of the opposite sex meet on the street alone? Will they ignore each other? Pass obscenities? Will Amelia, the obviously 'higher' class woman, let slip a confident smirk?

I lean in, trying to clear dust from the window and succeeding only in smudging it more. I see Corset Goddess look up, following Amelia with her eyes. The dark haired beauty has ignored her so far, still casually making her way up town. Corset Goddess seems neutral in her gaze also.

I frown. Well, that was anti-climatic. No behind-the-back facial detest? No obscene hand gestures? Either women are being nicer to each other now days, or they're just not putting in the effort...

When you see things not meant for your eyes, it's like time slows down for a second. Like fate gives you an ultra-clear image of what you think you see, just so later you can realise how easily you took the bait. The lover you saw hugging a strange man, and later reprimand for cheating; of course it turns out to be her brother, or long lost third cousin removed. But in that one voyeuristic moment, you just feel so sure your first instincts are right. Such is the way of the human mind.

I see Amelia, her black hair fluttering in the storm wind, her long, thin legs gliding smoothly over the cobblestones. I see her turn her head, ever so slightly, and catch Corset Goddess's eye. There's a quick nod of the head, magnified by my fate slowed moment, which the blonde corner worker responds to, not in like, but with a quick finger raised at her side. It's made to look like a casual wave, perhaps shooing away an insect. At least, that's how a normal person would see it. Not to a man who can find things. That was a signal, loud and clear. Then time speeds up, and I swear I can see the Goddess smile, before she leaves her lamp post and slinks away into the darkness. Both women are out of sight seconds later, and I'm left feeling disturbed (and wholly unsatisfied).

Lying through her teeth in her 'rescue my sister' interview, now sharing silent messages with a Mistress of the Night? Miss Amelia with the Emerald Eyes is a woman of mystery, and she seems all too happy to leave me in the dark. Well, I don't like being played with, and when we meet again, I'll be getting some answers. Truthful ones.

But that was a task for the future. I leave the window and stroll quickly to the chest of drawers. I almost choke when I open the top one. Hmm, must be close to annual sock-wash time. Only wear the damn things to stop my boots from chafing...

I rummage around and find what I'm looking for; my tannery-made demon hide jacket. Cost a fortune to make, but it's got the best bits from every kill I made during the War against Destruction, and it's as tough as char-grilled steak. Drives the ladies wild (till they find out where it came from) but best of all it keeps those damn Arreat winds out.

One last thing: I go to my bed and bend down, searching in the darkness beneath. Dust... something unpleasant that may have been the remains of dinner a few weeks ago... the shining eyes of my fat rodent friend (sorry mate, no scraps tonight), and my hat. Little bastard was nesting in it. I haul it out and sc#!& the twigs and leaves out from inside. At least he's house trained. The ex-resident is glaring at me now, pondering whether to take a nip at my boots, or go scampering away further into the dark below my bed.

It makes me grin slightly as I place the wide brimmed hat over my balding head. I used to have a stylish black ponytail, but not anymore. Hair's the first thing to go when you age. Well, first thing _after_ the waist line. I had abs once too. Still, now I have this handsome hat to replace all that, and everything in the world is right again.

Yeah, and angel farts smell like roses.

I open the door, and get hit by a wave of cold, smoky air. It's almost enough to turn an old hermit back, but there's something else in that air; the last wispy fragments of perfume.

I have an old friend to visit.

* * *

The Beast Master's quarters look far from pleasant. Nestled in a small mountain grotto about half a mile from Harrogath, surrounded by the remains of a rickety picket fence, the hut looks and smells like it hasn't been cleaned in perhaps thirty years. I suppose you could chalk that up mostly to the fertilized vegetable gardens out front. What better way to get rid of the daily piles of animal waste?

I step over the rusted bars of what I'm guessing was once a gate, and my boot sinks up to the ankle. Great. The path to his door is a muddy track through the snow, and I have to struggle to keep my footing in the slush. It'd be a real shame to break my neck before I have a chance to wring his.

From what I've heard, the place was originally a mine, though abandoned long before even I was born. The back of the hut actually rests against the grotto wall, and I know there's a large trail of caves leading deeper into the mountain which The Beast Master uses as keeps for his pets. It's the perfect place to raise a family... or hide, should someone be out for you furry skin. I hope he doesn't suspect I'm coming.

Standing on the stoop of his door, my hand pauses in mid-knock, considering what to do. Go ahead and announce my arrival? Let him know he has a visitor, one that's looking to split a few heads today? The pause is long enough for me to decide I should scout around a bit first, so I step back from the door and circle around the side of the hut.

I know from experience that the easy way is usually the most dangerous. Would you prefer to pick the snake up by the tail? Or get a bag and big stick first? Same goes when casing a situation. I slink against the walls of the hut, trying to stay out of sight, till I spot a window for viewing inside.

It's dark in there. I know I'm taking a big risk, but curiosity is always the hardest of urges to resist. That, and trying to keep your eyes from wandering to the chest of a passing female when you know she's not looking. Cautiously, I inch my way up to peer inside, the tip of my hat pushing up comically over my forehead.

Darkness. Is he home? Perhaps out the back, shifting more crap from the dens? My eyes are adjusting, and I can make out shapes. A desk, reminiscent of my own except his is covered in bird droppings, sits in the middle of the room. The owner of the poop swings happily in its cage above. The sides and corners of the room are cluttered with junk, but none of it is distinguishable in the gloom. It's a shame the fireplace isn't lit. Suddenly something big appears, something that hadn't been in my field of view seconds earlier. I try to pull back, but my reflexes have been a bit rusty lately.

_SLAM! CRUNCH!_

The window flies up, and a fist the size of a battering ram lunges out to connect with my chin. I'm hurled back three feet onto a patch of freshly fertilised vegies, and lay there, watching the sky dance before my eyes. The blow was so hard it made my teeth rattle to the roots, and I can already feel a whopper bruise rising to the occasion. My head falls to the side, and I see what looks like a carrot, pointing and laughing at me. They're all laughing at me. My only thought is; "How can he grow these in the snow?"

Slowly my head begins to right itself, and the strange post-concussion hallucinations begin to fade. I can still hear laughter, but it's not the vegetables. It's a deep, booming voice. One could say 'husky'. I manage to lift my head slightly and look back at the window.

The Beast Master is leaning out, grinning like a mad thing. His hair is greyer then I remember it, but there's a still a strand or two of that fiery red from his youth. He's got side-burns as well; quite becoming for a man his age. I groan and raise myself up onto one elbow, doing an injury check and discovering nothing but my pride is really hurt. The Beast Master is still chuckling, and rubbing the knuckles of his right hand.

"Sorry about that," he booms, "but I honestly thought you'd be faster."

I get up from my knees and swagger unsteadily to the left.

"I am. Usually." I rub my jaw but manage a pained smirk. "How'd you know I was coming?"

He points to his face, and for just a second I see his ears grow large and furry, and his nose take on the slightest hint of black.

"Hearing of a wolf and a sense of smell to match, my friend," he mocks. "Though I can't say I remember stealth ever being your forte."

I give him a hand gesture that sums up my feelings better then words, and bend to pick up my hat. What _is_ that on the brim? I decide its best not to enquire, and just flick it away.

An unexpected re-introduction to a man from my past, and so far it was going pretty well. True, he got the drop on me and bruised my ego from the start, but he actually seems friendly and eager for conversation. A mistake he may later regret, if all went as planned.

The Beast Master returns my gesture, and then motions to the door. I trudge through the sleet carefully, and hear him close the window forcefully behind. Seconds later, there's the snap of a bolt being drawn, and a loud creak as the door swings open. Beast Master's massive figure fills its frame, and he crosses his arms as I reach him.

"Long time, ay, Amergin?" I say with a forced a smile.

"Long time, Giles," Amergin the Beast Master responds, "me old war buddy. We have catching up to do."

* * *

Names. The labels we use for one another not only define who we are, they're the main piece of us to be passed down in history. Even after our actions are forgotten, names like "Morgrim the Dragon Slayer", "Carrion Corpse Purger", and "Pee Wee the Cross Legged Midget" are apt to be part of legend for generations to come.

Giles. Who the hell gave me a name like that? I would blame my parents, but as far as I know I never had any. Maybe I just congealed in a gutter somewhere. My life as an orphan wasn't too bad I guess; the only time I was ever punished was when I chucked one of my temper tantrums and beat my room mates into a submissive pulp. It did earn me the nickname 'Bruiser', which the other heroes adopted jokingly when I let it slip one day.

Calling The Beast Master by his true name also felt odd, almost disrespectful. He may be a low life drug trafficker now, but once he'd fought for the good of mankind against demons of indescribable horror. We called him The Beast Master back then, and, as far as I'm concerned, it'll be his name till the day he dies.

An event which may be closer then he suspects.

Though from the smug look on his face at the moment, I doubt he has even the slightest idea of what's coming. We sit in his dark room; I'm on the seat in front of the desk, trying to act natural. He's behind the desk, striking a pose very similar to my boredom one back home. The only real difference being that he has one foot on the desk edge. The other...

"You'd think with the new gadgets they're making these days, they could make something more comfortable then this splintery bloody thing." He waves the base of his wooden leg in front of my face, then drops it distastefully on the desk top. His footless stump stands out; a glaring abnormality that you just can't keep your eyes away from, despite the guilt you feel when you look. The Beast Master takes a swig of his expensive distilled liqueur, and offers the bottle to me. I take it gratefully.

"So what's news, Bruiser? What have you been up to during these long, dark years?" His question sounds genuine, but there's a mocking tinge in his tone. Almost like he knows my whole damn life is a failure, and how selling out brought him so much more success.

Those savvy clothes, the well stocked cabinet full of food and the finest drink. Exactly the kind I imagined old Malah to have, and just as good as I pictured too. I savour the flavour, swirling it around in my mouth for a good few seconds before swallowing and preparing to answer dear friend Amergin.

"Well," I begin, "after the war I had more treasure then I knew what to do with. I bought a nice home on a hill, decked it out with the finest of antiquities, then found a cute little missus to cosy up with every night. Three kids, a puppy and... no I've done squat since we last met. Living on grog, fried rabbit and sharing my shack with a rat. He's a cute rat though, if that makes any difference."

The Beast Master almost falls off his chair laughing at this. After awhile he manages to point ceiling ward, and choke through fits and gurgles.

"Yes, I've got a rat of my own. 'Cept he flies, and never shuts up."

Squwark "Feed me, ya lazy piece o' -"

"Quite a mouth on him," I smile, watching the bird swinging in his cage above our heads. "Who taught him those choice phrases?"

"Eh, we have gambling nights once a month. He just picks up what the boys have to say."

Squwark "Card up the sleeve, gut the cheating piece o' -"

"Bird! Enough!" The Beast Master tosses a scrunched piece of paper at the cage, and the babbling twitter-head goes silent.

I've drunk his good liqueur. I've made the idle chit chat. Time to get to business. I'm already mulling over the possible outcomes this scenario could have, and all of them include some various form of torture.

I never used to be this mean. Some things just push my buttons.

"You know, Beast Master, there was another reason I came here, besides 'catch-up' time and reminiscing over old war wounds. I'm looking for someone, and I've been told -"

Amergin puts up his hand and looks so grim I stop mid-sentence. Could he really be willing to spill this easily? Damn, and I was so looking forward to some rough stuff.

"I know exactly what you're going to say, Giles, but, before things get messy, let's go for a walk out the back. I have some friends I'd like to show you."

He picks his leg off the table and straps it firmly back on. Then he gets out of his chair and begins to hobble towards the back door. I sit where I am, unsure of what to do. Is this a trap? My instincts say yes, but there's no immediate alarm bells going off yet.

Shrugging at last, I get up and begin to follow him. Whatever he's got back here is probably worth a look anyway, and might offer up some more interesting information-extracting techniques. Plus, I'm not about to let him get the jump on me a second time.

Squwark "Wipe yer feet before you come in, ya dirty piece o' -"

* * *

I trudge along behind Amergin, through the long twisting caves, deep in the cliffs behind his shack. The smell of manure and wet fur hangs in the air so thick I can almost see it; a pale green mist wisping down the darkened corridors. Growls and yips of pain echo in the distance, and I suddenly discover a raw lump forming in my throat.

Do I really want to see this? What kind of conditions The Beast Master has been keeping his loyal pets in? The savage sounds are anything but happy and I can only assume the worst (call it a self-defence mechanism if you must, I just don't like being disappointed).

We round a bend, and come to a long illuminated tunnel. Barred doorways line the walls, and the stench of urine and rotten meat is almost overwhelming. The Beast Master continues to amble on, his shoulders rising and falling unevenly with the awkward movement of his wooden leg.

"These are my holding pens," he says, gesturing briefly to each door as we pass. I don't want to look in, but I can't help myself. And immediately wish I hadn't.

Each cell holds two, perhaps three wolves; skinny, ragged excuses for the muscle bound predators that had fought with us on Arreat. Their fur comes off in clumps, and every one of them has festering bite-wounds somewhere on their body. The unfortunate side affects of boredom, starvation, and being in close proximity to those in the same situation.

"Don't worry, it's not as bad as it looks," The Beast Master mumbles. "I take them out for exercise occasionally, and the food is good. I should know; I eat it too."

It's lucky his back is to me, because there's no way I can prevent the look of disgust twisting my features. His voice contains no warmth, not even the slightest suggestion of caring. He's cold and indifferent, and I immediately began to wonder if all his dogs are barking up the same tree.

With the Wolf Pens behind us, the tunnel opens up into a larger room. Amergin pauses upon entry, and points to some bulging bags leaning against the far wall.

"Know what that is?"

I do, but I don't respond to his question. Flower Powder, and enough to send an army into fits of giggles for a month. I can't even begin to calculate the worth of a pile like this in gold, but I'm guessing if he sold it, old Amergin could afford to buy himself Arreat Mountain and still have enough left over to keep his drink cabinet full for generations to come.

Of course, he can't do that though. These bags do not belong to one person; they're an accumulated stash from countless towns, taking a brief pit stop before being dispersed around by The Beast Masters carriers. Each bag has a different mark on it, and I recognise a few of the mob sigils immediately. After all, they mark their goons as well, and there's been more than a few wandering around Harrogath lately.

To the left of the bags sits a strange contraption made of steel and wood that looks somewhat like a torture device. Pistons and spikes, straps and needles: all hovering over a central table and looking more sinister then a gaping demons maw. I grimace as The Beast Master walks over to the machine and pets it lovingly. He turns to me, smiling.

"This is my pride and joy, my technological masterpiece. With this darling I can stuff an arse a minute, should the need arise."

There's blood on the table, and I know I don't want a demonstration of the machines capabilities. Amergin snorts a chuckle, and leaves the room through another doorway. My danger senses are spiking wildly, but I suppress them. I try to keep calm by thinking reassuring thoughts: I'm ready for anything; he won't get the drop on me again; it's just the machine that's unnerved me, or the smells or the wolves.

But why is he showing me all this, and how he did he even know that I knew what he was up to? Whatever the case, I'm only going to follow him a little longer, then we're going to have a heart to heart talk.

I trail him silently through the next corridor - this one seems to be lined with bear cells, each in a similar or worse state then the wolves - and try to stay focused on his back. I swear it's gotten broader in the past few minutes, but I put it down to poor lighting. He's definitely moving faster though, and I'm power walking to keep up.

The corridor suddenly opens up into a large circular cavern that I can only describe as an underground arena. And although it's illuminated by numerous torches, it's almost not enough to reveal the gaping hole in the floor before I go plunging into it. I halt in time, one foot teetering in mid-air, hanging over a drop of almost fifteen feet. The Beast Master stands at the edge, chuckling, and I glare at him distastefully.

"Could have warned me."

"Where's the fun in that?" he smirks. He gestures to the hole, "Care to take a closer look?"

I lean in to try and see the bottom of the hole. It's dark, but I can make out the dusty ground, littered with what looks like branches. No, not branches. Bones. A barred door in the wall of the hole emits a smell worse then the bear and wolf pits combined, and suddenly sweat begins to break out on my forehead. The carcasses dangling from the rusty meat hooks on the cavern roof above are not helping to calm me. They're long dead, but I can still see the twisted horror in their faces, and also that they're missing a large portion of themselves. Like everything from the waist down, and "chewed off" is the only description that comes to mind.

Too late I realise Amergin's offer to take a closer look didn't involve just peering down into the hole. This is a trap, and I stupidly walked into it. Alert, my ass; he could have led me to the slaughterhouse and I would have handed him the knife.

"Oh, you clever bastard," I cry, and spin around to face the door; my escape. But something big and furry is already blocking my path. The seven foot bear standing on its hind legs - one made of flesh, the other, wood - grins at me, letting thick drops of saliva slide to the floor. One of its giant paws is already raised, claws shining in the torch light.

"Tough lucky, old war buddy," it growls in a voice only slightly resembling The Beast Master. Then the mighty paw comes down, and I'm falling through darkness.


	4. Scene 4 – Interrogations

**Scene 4 - Interrogations**

Groaning, I open my eyes and peer through the dust. The landing knocked the wind out of me, and I can feel three hot slashes across my chest that can only have been made by those razor sharp claws. My eyes are readjusting again, and suddenly I see something staring back.

It's a human skull; empty sockets gazing blindly, jaw bone askew in a comical lop-sided manner. And the massive tooth marks covering the bone lead me to believe it wasn't the fall that killed him either.

I give a cry and stagger up. It's gloomy down here and my face is coated in dirt, but that's no where near as bad as what the bastard did to my coat. I can't help but give a moan of distress when I see the tears in its fine tailored leather. Damned furry bastard, I'm gonna tear something in him when I get out of here.

The Beast Master's deep chuckle drifts down to me, and I snap my gaze up to catch his. He's back in human form, grinning absurdly. I'd give him something to grin about, if I wasn't stuck in the pit.

"Amergin, you son of a b!tch. I'll kill you. Get your ass down here; I'm gonna whoop it whether it's got tail or not."

"Oh, I doubt that, Bruiser, old friend," he cackles insanely. "I'm really sorry to do this to you, honest. But I can't let you go asking too many questions of me; I have every mob boss on Arreat watching this joint. If they even suspect me of revealing any of their secrets, I'll be up the mountain without a goat."

"You crazy bastard. Are you just going to leave me here to die? What happened to the warrior I fought beside?"

"He went the way of my leg, I'm afraid. There's no glory in being a hero anyway." He leans done the pit towards me, devilish eyes shining. "Who remembers your deeds of valour? For that matter; who cares? We're all has-beens now. Forgotten relics. There's no point in being honourable anymore; be bad, and reap the benefits!"

My fists clench and unclench. I can almost hear my tear grinding inside my skull. I hate being bested. I'm just beginning to search the pit wall for foot holds, when a blast of hot, foul air hits my back. The pit becomes alive with a deep, throaty growl, and I'm about two seconds away from filling my undergarments with garden fertilizer. The Beast Master is up from the pit side, and has his hand on a rope.

"Oh yes, I forgot. Meet your new friend. I'm very proud of him."

Amergin begins to haul on the rope, and the barred door in the pit wall slowly beings to lift up. The hairs on the back of my neck are already fully bristled, and the blasts of foul air are making me nauseous. But it's the two glowing eyes in the darkness behind the door that have me really scared.

And I'm not ashamed to say so.

When half a ton of raw, shaggy, slobbering beast comes out of the blackness to share a confined space with you, any bar room drunk should be proud to say his main wish involved a warm bed, soup and mommy. My back is so far against the wall I'm hoping I look a part of it.

"Behold, my ultimate prize for caring for all things great and small: The Warg."

The Warg lumbers into the pit, snarling through teeth so big they look like the scythes of Death himself. Its fur sticks out like wry steel; steel that might rip your skin off should you brush against it. Even the massive paws seem to dig gouges in the floor effortlessly. It's pissed about something, and I'm its chance to vent.

"Not long after the war ended, I found this little guy, cold and alone, up on the mountain. He was unlike any other wolf I'd seen before, and I knew he'd be worth keeping. Grew to the size he is now in about three months, and his temper grew to match; had to stick him down there for my own safety. Well, that and the fact that he ate my best carrier. Never knew cannibalism was in their nature."

The Warg is circling me now, biding its time for some unknown reason. Perhaps its casing me, the same way I do with my clients. Though I don't usually dine on my clients intestines once I figure them out. Slowly I reach for the sleeve of my jacket. No fast moves! Don't give him reason to lunge. He may have size, but I'm the one with the projectile weaponry. My trusty mini-cross lies attached to my arm, ready and waiting.

With one quick motion I pull up the sleeve and open my hand, expecting the crossbow to slide out like it always does. But nothing comes out. The Warg freezes in surprise at my movement, but when I don't do anything he starts growling again, more savage then before.

Idiot. You woman dazzled moron. You never even strapped the weapon to your arm, it's still sitting in your draw at home! I was so goddam flustered by Miss Perfumed Hair Skimpy Dress I forgot the single most important rule of all: never go anywhere without a weapon.

Well, now I was going to learn the hard way. Again. Idiot.

"Don't worry, he usually makes it quick." Amergin can see the panic on my face, and he's relishing it. "Goes straight for the throat. Yes you do, who's a good boy?"

"Dammit it, Beast Master, I am gonna rip you..."

But I never get to finish the sentence. The Warg lunges at me, and have only a fraction of a second to throw myself under its paws. The reek of ammonia and crusty dog crap hits me like a rake in the face, and I crawl desperately underneath the beast as its massive feet crash down beside me. I feel a yank on my jacket as snapping teeth clip the edge. He's only centimetres from taking off my leg.

The Beast Master can barely contain himself as he watches me roll over and cling desperately to the Warg's underbelly, braving the steely fur and overpowering stench. The wolf goes crazy and begins to buck like a rabid bull, snapping at my hands clinging to its sides and kicking furiously at my body.

Finally he smashes into the wall and crushes my left hand, forcing me to let go. I tumble over in the dust, cracking dry bones under my weight. It only takes the Warg a second to pounce on me and start snapping at my neck, while I fend him off by holding his. His hot breath and dripping fangs are just begging to latch onto my exposed jugular.

Hot breath. Fangs. Leering bloodshot eyes. There's only so much one man can take. I can feel the anger boiling up, taking over the fear. Snap at me, ay? Want a juicy, moist hunk of my still living flesh? Well, I'll give him something to chew on.

Not wishing to ruin my right hand as well, I release his throat just long enough to ram my fist into his open jaws. I'm hoping the Warg would be too surprised to bite down, but bite down he does. A few times.

I ignore the pain. Believe me, I've had worse. My hand gropes urgently inside the beasts mouth, trying to get a grip on the prize, while with every bite its teeth puncture my arm again and again, and the blood flows in gushes.

Finally I get it; my fist closes on the Wargs tongue, and I dig my nails in for all its worth. With a mighty pull, I rip the damnable thing out of its mouth, and the wolf lets out a howl that makes the bodies, hanging on their hooks high above, swing about in protest. Blood squirts out of the beasts mouth in a torrent, and I can see in its eyes its wishing my death.

But my actions have the desired result. The Warg backs off to the far wall in confusion and pain, gurgling awkwardly and staring at the limp piece of flesh flopping in my bleeding hands. I get up off my back and wave the tongue in front of me.

"Yeah, how do you like that, you bad tempered bastard?" I snarl. It empowers me to see the fear in its eyes, but I know it won't last long. I can already see its rage building, the gurgling returning to a full blown growl. And then I see my only chance.

The Warg has backed up against the far wall: right beneath the spot where the treacherous Beast Master stands, high up on the rim of the pit. Amergin seems to have lost interest in the fight for the moment; he's busy fiddling with rope that holds up the barred door. The Warg, standing perhaps five feet high, gives me a decent sized step up the remaining ten feet of wall.

Ten feet. And not long ways either. This is a straight up, vertical jump. Back in my day, I could leap from chasms and cliffs without giving it a second thought, plunging into the depths of battle and stunning foes with merely the force of my landing.

But that was back then.

Ten feet. Is it still possible? Could this old man even manage a task like that? In the end, I know it doesn't matter; either I make it and live, or I don't, and become the next torso to be hanging from a meat hook on the cavern roof. It's a no brainer.

The Warg is furious now, and I'm guessing the pain has kicked in. Thick, blood filled saliva is flowing from its jaws, and even bubbling from its hideous snout. It's going to charge any second, and I'm going to have to get this right first time.

"You want me?" I whisper so as not to attract Amergins attention. "You want revenge on me for ripping out your tongue? Want to eat my insides while I'm still alive and kicking?"

The Warg's growl intensifies, its eyes are blazing. It puts its head down close to the floor and gets ready to lunge. This is my chance, and I'm not about to waste it. I spring into action, running straight at the enraged animal. It backs up a step, unsure of my intent, which only provides me with a better opportunity.

With one smooth jump I land heavily on the Wargs back, feeling and hearing the jaws clicking as I pass over them, and then launch myself again. It's well executed, well timed, and I'm heading straight for my target. Higher and higher. Doing better then I thought. Only a few feet left, and not stopping there.

In an act that even surprises me; I sail gracefully over the pits rim and straight at the unsuspecting Druid. Ha, you fool, Beast Master; never turn your back on an enemy, even if they are in a pit fifteen feet below. My grin is one of pure joy, and I can't help but let him know what's coming.

"Hey, Beast Master," I roar as I hit the ground. He spins around and gapes in shock; it's an image I know I'll always love to recall. And then my fist smashes his worthless face, and he falls to the ground, out cold.

The Warg is howling like a mad thing in the pit below, furious at having lost its prey. I shake my punching hand and feel the knuckles crack as I do. Damn, how long since I've done _that_? But boy, did it feel good. I look down at the prostrate body of Amergin the Beast Master, and grin a savage grin.

"Tough luck, old war buddy."

It's questioning time.

* * *

The Beast Master blinks. I can see he's confused and struggling to articulate his thoughts. He blinks again, and then shakes his head; there's blood in his eyes and flowing from his nose. Below him, the Warg smells blood that isn't its own and quickens its pacing. I assume its injury has stopped its growling. Probably hurts too much.

Amergin coughs, and then begins to thrash about furiously.

"Giles? Giles! What the hell is this?"

"Call it poetic justice," I yell out to him. I hate to admit it, but my speech is getting a little slow now.

After I'd knocked the surprised Druid out, I tied his arms and legs together and gave him another punch... just to make sure he wasn't going anywhere. Then I staggered back down the tunnels to his hut.

The bird seemed to be quiet when Amergin wasn't around, which was good because I probably would have rung its scrawny neck if it'd started babbling. There was only one thing on my mind, and that was fine liquor we'd drunk when I first arrived. I'd grabbed a few bottles and shoved them in my now-slightly-ragged jacket, and kept one for my walk back.

The next hour I'd spent cutting the rope that raised the Warg's door, tying it around Amergin's chest and hoisting him up above the snarling animal's pit. It had been hard work; I was exhausted from the fight and my bitten hand was swollen and hurting like hell.

Now I sit on the edge of the pit, the rope in my good hand and a bottle by my side. I'd made a makeshift bandage from a piece of clothe doused in the alcohol, but that wasn't stopping the pain. The one and a half bottles I'd drunk over the course of my task was starting to help, though I'm beginning to think that perhaps I'd downed them too fast.

"Poetic justice, letting the animals get their own back," I call again. "How does it feel to be on the receiving end of things?"

Amergin is still thrashing about, high above the pit, and the blood from his facial wounds is driving the Warg into a frenzy.

"You're crazy, Giles, crazy and a fool. I'm no good to you dead."

"I dont plan on keeping you alive for a ransom or something. I've got no interest in your little underworld money schemes. I just need information."

The Beast Master stops thrashing and looks at me in surprise.

"Information? You're bloody joking." He stares quietly for a minute, and then lets out a raucous laugh and shakes his head. "A face from the past - a dangerous and unpredictable one, I might add - turns up on my doorstep, and I'm supposed to think you're just here for a friendly chat?"

"You're saying you thought I came to take over the business?"

The Beast Master points to the dried corpses dangling from their hooks around him.

"Call it years of collective paranoia."

I'm beginning to understand why he'd been so quick to try and do away with me. When you're in a business as dangerous as his, you can't afford to let anyone get the upper hand on you. Still, I came to get some answers, and he sure as hell isn't getting away with it that easy.

"I don't care if you misunderstood. That's your mistake, and now you're swinging for it."

I pause long enough to take a swing of his liquor with my bad hand. Then I give the rope a sharp tug.

"Alright," I begin slowly. "I'm going to ask you some simple questions. If I think you answer truthfully, I'll hoist you up a bit, away from the pit. If you don't answer, or lie, I'm going to lower you towards that very angry set of jaws down there." I pause again and rub my good arm. "And you better be quick, 'cause I'm not as young as I used to be."

The Beast Master smiles, baring some abnormally sharp teeth, and growls at me.

"Fine, ask your bleeding heart away."

"Good. Now, I'm looking for a young woman. Medium height, well toned, brown hair, brown eyes. Her sister says she came to hire some protection from you. Her name is Elsa. First question: did you, or did you not, meet this young woman?"

Amergin is strangely silent, swinging back and forth high above the gaping hole. His blank, neutral eyes are looking at me, but they're not seeing.

"Have you seen her or not?" I repeat.

Finally he averts his eyes, and looks into the blackness below.

"Of all the questions you could ask me," he growls quietly.

"Wrong answer," I reply, and let the rope slip a few feet. The Beast Master lets out a cry, which is quietened abruptly when he comes to a jerking halt. He's now swinging about level with the opening of the pit.

"Dammit, Giles, you really are crazy. Don't you understand?" The neutral look is gone now, replaced by a mixture of fear and anger. "I can't tell you that."

"Why not?"

"You know my kind of customers. If I snitch, I'll have mob thugs on my doorstep in seconds."

This is interesting. I lean in further towards the pit to make sure I catch his every word.

"Mob? This girl isn't involved in the mob. What makes you say that?"

"Oh, I don't know!" Amergin bawls. "She said she was part of a group, or guild, or something. She said if I told anyone about her visit or where she was going I'd be dead faster then I could snort my precious powders."

I admit I'm a bit taken aback by this. There's real urgency in The Beast Masters voice, and I know it would take more then idle threats to shake him up. Could Amelia have lied to me? I was sceptical of her after that mysterious message to the Corset Goddess, but the idea that she'd lie about her sister seemed very unlikely... unless... there was something else I wasn't seeing.

To show some appreciation for Amergin's honesty, I pull the rope back ad raise him a little higher. For now.

"Ok, I believe you, Beast Master. But that doesn't change the fact that I was hired to find her, and I need to know what you know."

"What does it matter?" he bellows. "If you don't kill me, they will. I'm dead no matter what I say."

"Then take it like the man you used to be!" I shout at him. My anger is being fuelled by my slight drunkenness, but there's also some hurt from how low my old friend has sunk. "If you're going to die, die with honour, or at least some decency!"

"You can go screw your brother in Hell for all I care," he snarls.

It's enough to push my rage over the edge, and I release the rope a good few feet. He sails down into the pit, howling all the way, and I stop him a short distance from the bottom.

He's not quite within reach of the Warg's jaws, but that doesn't stop it from trying. The great beast circles underneath for a minute, its bloody lips letting lose torrents of saliva. It pauses beneath him, crouches and then springs. The teeth crash together, inches from Amergin's feet.

"You bastard!" he's yelling. "You stupid, pigheaded bast-ARGH!"

The Warg's second leap has succeeded, and the big wolf now dangles victoriously from The Beast Masters good leg. He's screaming his lungs out, and suddenly I'm up and struggling to hold the rope. The extra weight is too much for one hand, so I have to bare the pain and hold on with both.

"Not yet, you hungry bugger," I croak. "Let go already."

The Warg is gurgling angrily, and refuses to let go its hold. It suddenly gives its head a fierce shake; there's a crack of bone, tearing of flesh, and then the Warg is back on the floor, chewing on its prize.

I sigh with relief, and heave The Beast Master back out of the pit. His leg is severed just below the knee, and there's blood squirting out everywhere. He's still screaming, and I sit back down again to enjoy some liquor while I wait.

Soon enough, he stops, and swings limply from his holding. His skin has taken on a pale shade and his eyes are closed. There's dark rings forming under them.

"Are we ready to talk civilly again?" I ask.

Amergin's breath is coming out in gasps, and he slowly opens his eyes to glare at me.

"The woman... she hired a wolf from me. Not the scrawny ones I showed you... one of the prime body guards. Damn... expensive too." He pauses to cough, and blood appears on his lips. Maybe I tied the rope to tight, and the Warg broke some ribs with its shaking assault? Oh well, as long as he lasts long enough to answer my last questions.

"Ok, so she has money. Why did she need the protection?"

"Dangerous... where she was going. Said she needed an extra pair of eyes..." he coughs up some more blood, and I can see the dark rings under his eyes are deepening.

"Good. I appreciate your help, Beast Master. Just a few more questions." I lean in towards the pit again. "Where was she headed?"

"G...Golland."

Ahh, so at least I know Amelia didn't lie about that.

"Why was she going to Golland?"

The Beast Master is fading. I guess age has affected him too, even though he still looks fitter then I do. But then, I doubt I'd last that long with an amputation either.

"She was... said she was... meeting... going to find and..." he's spluttering, losing track of his words. "Going to meet... someone important."

"Who?" I ask. My arm is aching, and my bad hand has soaked well through the bandage. Both of us are losing strength fast.

It doesn't seem to bother Amergin though. He smiles, and begins to laugh softly.

"You wouldn't... believe me... you'll drop me into the pit... if I tell you."

"I'm going to do it anyway," I wince. "Tell me who."

The Beast Master raises his head and looks into my eyes for the last time. The dark rings amplify the deathliness of his stare.

"Necris," he says. "She's gone to find Necris."

He was right. I let go of the rope. But not on purpose; I think the idea that I let a sultry pair of legs talk me into a job like this, shocked my muscles into releasing. I barely even register the Warg's gurgles of triumph, and so miss the final moments of Amergin the Beast Master's tragic life.

Necris Mancini. The Big Daddy. The Godfather. The Lord of All Things Snortable. He was the biggest, baddest mob boss around, and no one but his highest lieutenants were allowed to see him. Anyone else that tried to meet him in the past - for whatever reason - had been respectively sent back to their families. Piece by piece.

It's too much to think about at this moment. I stagger to my feet and take one last swig of that fine liquor. Well, of that bottle anyway. I've got the others in my jacket still.

"One for me," I say. Then I throw the bottle into the pit where the Warg is busy gorging itself. "And one for you, good buddy. Rest in peace now."

I'm feeling cold and a little bit dizzy from the alcohol. My hand is throbbing with angry redness. As I stumble down the dark, stony corridors, I unbolt the doors of the many holding pens. The animals will eventually work out they can push the doors open; I don't really want a dozen starving carnivores chasing me out of here.

The bird squawks as I enter the rundown shack, and startles me from zombie-like swaggering.

"Oh, hey Bird," I say dreamily. It'll probably starve to death without The Beast Master to feed it, so I reach up and unhook the cage from the roof.

Squwark "Put me down, you card counting piece o' -"

"Foul mouthed till the end, ain'tcha?" I smile.

I barge the door open with my shoulder, and slip out onto the steps. The night air is crisp, but it's not snowing thankfully. The moon is well hidden behind clouds, and only the slightest silver glow makes the surrounding land stand out.

I take a deep breath, glad to be out of the musty, stale air of the caverns. My head feels a little clearer. Then a ruffling at my side brings my attention back to Bird.

"Alright, boy. Out you get." I open the cage door and give it a shake, and the parrot flaps out into the night. It disappears in seconds, and soon even the sound of its wings fades away. I sigh, and begin my trudge back.

* * *

I guess maybe I passed out, because when I awake next I'm under a tree in the snow. I obviously didn't make it far, because I can still see The Beast Masters hut in the distance. The moon has come out from behind its blanket, bathing everything in shimmering light. It takes a few seconds to register, but I suddenly realise the air is alive.

Howls and growls of all kinds are echoing across the valley. In the moonlight, I can see hundreds of dark shapes exiting the Beast Masters shack, padding away into the snow. There's hunger in those growls, and I know if I don't move soon I'll be item number one of a starving wolf's menu.

With effort I get to my feet, feeling better then when I left the tunnels, but still very sore. I reach for my pockets and halt halfway. Alcohol here probably isn't the best idea. I have to get back to Harrogath; get stitched up, get a weapon and get back in the warm.

My hand aches likes it's a home to Khandurasian Fireants. _Damn_, I need a drink.


End file.
